


The Lay of Sir Marroc

by avani



Category: The Idylls of the Queen - Phyllis Ann Karr
Genre: Ambiguous or Implied Relationships, Gen, Post-Canon, casefic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-24
Updated: 2018-12-24
Packaged: 2019-09-18 12:34:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,028
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16995090
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/avani/pseuds/avani
Summary: Since their return from Astolat, Mordred has plagued Kay with his opinions whenever they were least requested-- so why should this latest story of a Companion of a Round Table gone mysteriously missing prove any different?





	The Lay of Sir Marroc

**Author's Note:**

  * For [mayhap](https://archiveofourown.org/users/mayhap/gifts).



> "Then the king commanded Sir Cador to take the  
> rearward, and to take with him certain knights of the Round  
> Table, and Sir Launcelot, Sir Bors, Sir Kay, **Sir Marroc** , with Sir  
> Marhaus, shall await on our person."-- _Le Morte d'Arthur_ , Book V, Chapter VIII.

“It was the wife, of course,” Mordred drawled, his legs draped over the arms of my chair. Since our return from Astolat, he might have stopped carving his ugly serpent rings, but instead he made up the difference by plaguing me with his opinions whenever they were least requested. “It always is.”

“Not always,” I said, more from sheer contrariness than any real confidence in the fact. A pretty face had almost managed to trick Palamedes and his brother into murdering each other, and there were still rumors that Ysolde of Ireland had meant at first to kill her Tristram; why should this latest story of a Companion of a Round Table gone mysteriously missing prove any different? If Sir Marroc had been unaccounted less than seven years, I must have lived in terror that he was about some foolhardy quest Artus would require a last-minute feast to commemorate upon his return. As it was, I was perfectly content to imagine him occupied elsewhere and go about my duties in peace.

Mordred, more was the pity, was not. “Strange,” he said, “that she and her new lord should have come to Court now, after all these years. And that the King’s new hound should carry on so in their presence.”

I grunted. Artus’ love for his dogs was no secret; he’d raised four already since we were boys, each of then named Cavall, and doted on them unreasonably. This latest Cavall might be met roaming in the woods rather than raised from puppyhood, and rather larger and fiercer than the rest, but otherwise I saw no difference.  A few years more, and this new Cavall would join the rest, nothing more than a fond memory for Artus to mourn when he was in his cups; but until it was so, there was no sense in bringing the hound’s bad behavior to his notice.

“Only suppose what the beast might had done if he’d smelled one of the haunches brought in for supper instead.”

“But—“ He was like a brachet gnawing upon a bone. I began to think that our peregrinations in search of Sir Patrise’s murderer had no little ill effect upon him “—why ought a hound to alarm an armed knight--unless it’s no hound at all.” He shook his head, the light catching the gold of his hair sudden and bright so that I had to look away.

This seemed likely to lead to no good end, and so I thought to turn his thoughts away from wild speculation—and then considered the possibility that, had not Mordred ample distraction, we might find ourselves buried under yet more heaps of ugly rings and brooding fits.

“Why indeed,” I said with the most encouragement I could muster.

*

And thus you may see the harm that comes of my affecting a supportive mien rather than offering up my usual sense. Mordred spent most of his time in the days following skulking in stairwells, half-hoping, I think, to discover Dame Eluned and her lord confessing to whatever skullduggery he suspected. I began, very quickly, to wonder if I hadn’t made a terrible miscalculation, particularly when he made it a point to seek me out and list his deductions.

But I confess I was distracted from confronting him outright by a certain interview with Gawain’s son. The knights of Camelot might have taken no notice of my efforts on Her Grace’s part, but the squires—or at least the contingent that originated from Orkney—certainly had, if the hushed whispers and sidelong glances were any indication.

I found it flattering enough until Florence, who seemed to believe days of shared travel allowed him some degree of familiarity, apologized outright for it.

“No need,” I said so graciously my detractors would not credit it. “It’s no more than my duty, saving brother knights—“

“Oh, not what you did for Father,” said Florence impatiently; and then, coloring, added: “Though certainly I am grateful for your valor. Did you think we hadn’t noticed that you were the only one who could coax Unc—er, Sir Mordred from one of his sulks?”

I had not, mostly because I did not believe that I was anything of the sort. My vanity bruised enough for one afternoon, and my feelings  relieved with a lecture to Florence about proper deference to one’s elders and knightly masters, I returned only to find Gouvernail complaining that Mordred was found snooping in Dame Eluned’s chambers, sending the chambermaids into a flurry.

Enough was enough, I decided.

*

That evening, when Mordred sidled into my chambers, my hands were crossed against my chest and my mind prepared with arguments for the confrontation that must follow.

“Well? What sordid truths have you uncovered in the lady’s wardrobe? A dirty shift? A moth or two? Never say you unearthed a slipper worn through?”

My irony was lost entirely on him; he steepled his fingers and began: “Every last piece of clothing they own is faultless--save hose and a tunic twice as wide around the shoulders as Dame Eluned’s new husband. What do you make of that?”

I threw my hands up in well-earned exasperation. “That it was left behind by the last couple to stay in those rooms! A thousand times more likely than all your accusations of a good woman combined!”

Mordred stiffened. I ignored him and went on.  

“What grudge have you against them? Damnably dull, I grant you, but you could bring half the court to trial on those charges.”

“I mislike them,” Mordred said shortly, “because one whoreson recognizes another, and I know that look in Baron Thopas’ eyes--and those of his lady wife."

“Bloodlust?” I indulged him.

“Guilt.”

Too farfetched by far for even my suspicious soul to believe. “And a man must die because of the look he wears--when Galahad roamed about looking ten times as guilty for the mortal sin of not reciting ten Hail Marys before he broke his bread!”

Mordred shook his head. I wondered that he even persisted in trying to persuade me, or that it could be so important to him. “And there’s the hound, too, no matter what you might say: no mortal beast looks like that, none that I know, or so draws the King’s attention.”

I drew in my breath sharply. What a fool I’d been! Of course Mordred’s distemper was tied to Artus; I could hear his grievance as though he’d spoken aloud: _to think he pays more attention to a_ dog _than he ever has me, his lone surviving son!_

I could not raise argument as to the truth of his claims; but I could deny his apparent belief that any of the three deserved to stand accused of sin for it. Patrise’s inadvertent murder, and Pinel’s grudge against Gawain, had taught me that much.

“God be praised,” I snapped, “that neither _Cavall_ nor _Eluned_ nor _Thopas_ are spelled with a _g_ , so that fault at least you cannot find--”

I had gone too far; I knew it at once. But it was far too late; Mordred’s face was as remote and alien as I remembered it on the banks of Nimue’s lake.

“Kind words,” he spat, “and such concern, all from one who has no reason to feel it. For you share no blood with me, no matter what kinship you claim with the King. You’re no uncle of mine.”

How many men must he have wanted to say those words to? Artus, surely, and Lot, too--and, although Lot had been our enemy, he had loved his last son enough to go to war to avenge him. I was glad he had died before he must face that same son’s spite. I was nothing to either of them, only the one fool who’d stood still long enough to hear Mordred out; and now, to watch as he bowed far too low and fled.

Leaving me, alone, to ponder how best to make recompense for what I’d done.

*

Two hours lent me no more insight, but a howl from one of the far corridors gave me a new concern. I raced, not down to the cellars where most of the castle’s inhabitants seemed to think the noise originated; but upstairs to Dame Eluned’s own chambers. As I feared, Cavall was there, teeth bared and hair on end, the chain that bound him to his post at night unloosed; and standing between it and the lady, Mordred, keys dangling in his hand.

“You bloody fool,” I hissed, and wished I’d thought to bring my sword. But Cavall turned one evil yellow eye to glare at me, and I realized I would not live to draw it.

“Marroc,” gasped the lady, “Marroc, please--”

Mordred and I eyed each other, and then the dog--the _werewolf_ \-- as one. I had met Sir Marroc only one before, when he’d come to try his hand at healing Sir Urre’s wounds with the rest--and never had I suspected anything of the sort of him. But if so, there was just enough stories I remembered my father frightening me and Artus with to suspect what I must do:

“The wardrobe!” I roared, and threw myself forward onto Cavall. “Give him his damned clothes!”

It was every bit as unpleasant as I had thought it would be. Cavall fought like the very devil that he was; snarling and scraping and baring his teeth. For the first few seconds, I had the upper hand, and then, all too soon, Cavall had me on my back--

A blow to my head, a body slamming into mine, and all of a sudden, Mordred was wrestling the werewolf away from my throat.

“Here!” Dame Eluned shrieked, hurtling the worn tunic and hose Mordred had described at the werewolf’s head; Cavall blinked, and, in the space of a second or two, lunged for Dame Eluned’s face.

Not a hiss of pain escaped her, but she paled; it was just enough time for me and Mordred to drag the creature off her and throw him towards the opposite side of the room. Dame Eluned darted to the door, we followed, and I locked it securely behind us.

“He’ll be in a rage once we must let him out,” Mordred said, when he could speak.

“Yes,” replied Dame Eluned shortly. “But also human. He won’t have a choice, not if given clothes and privacy. He told me as much, years ago.”

Her nose--what was left of it--was bleeding. I placed a hand on her shoulder; God pardon us all, she was braver by far than most of our company. “Seek out a physician,” I advised. “I’ll explain to the King what has become of his dog.”

*

Dawn was almost upon us by the time that I, for once, entered Mordred’s chambers, rather than the other way around. Apologizing does not come easily to me, and so I do not make a habit of it; and today was not to be the day I made an exception.

Instead I stood by the fire, and said: “You were right, then. Any fool can be, once or twice in his lifetime.”

Mordred smiled. “Sir Kay admitting defeat at last: can any of the marvels of Aunt Morgan’s art produce a sweeter sound?”

“Damn your bones,” I told him, and Mordred laughed.

“So you see,” he went on urgently, “that I do not lie, not when it matters, not to you. Will you believe me?”

I thought of the things he might say, of Her Grace and Artus and the fact they would always-- _must_ always--come first. “Mordred,” I said warily, and he only shook his head.

“What does it matter? It’s enough that you listen, and have wit enough to understand.”

He seemed very young, there in the shadows: and though the firelight no longer shone in his hair, I had to look away.

 _You’re not my uncle_ , he had said; and truly, I was not. Yet the bruise he’d given me in the process of saving my life still throbbed on my cheekbone, and had it come from any other, I would have called it a kiss.

**Author's Note:**

> For mayhap, who wanted Kay&Mordred casefic playing with another episode of _Le Morte d'Arthur_! I hope you enjoy this.  
> For those curious, Sir Marroc's most important mention comes in Book XIX, Chapter XI of _Le Morte d'Arthur_ , where he's introduced as "Sir Marrok, the good knight that was betrayed with his wife, for she made him seven year a were wolf." And for those who recognize this story as similar to "Bisclavert," this is often thought to be Marie de France's original source.  
> Sir Thopas' name is a reference to Chaucer's infamous tale in the _Canterbury Tales_. Dame Eluned's name is my own invention.


End file.
